Tantalus
by hikachu
Summary: Riff remembers well the strong, almost pungent scent of wild flowers scattered all over his bed. He remembers it better than the suffocating smell of smoke and furniture burning away. Slight Riff/Cain.


**TANTALUS**

When he first awoke to a small, small world of padded walls and blinding white, his brother's obscure silhouette was still there: between his eyes and reality; in his mind. And there were flames, too, moving almost gracefully and high and covering everything else around Clyde, like an exotic curtain shivering under the wind, except that the flames glowed and danced and grew, and Riff, even as confused as he must have been, was pretty sure curtains didn't do that.

Then, someone who looked like a doctor and three sturdy men rushed into the tiny room, alarmed by the scream Riff didn't know he'd let out; but before they could try to restrain him, he lost consciousness again, falling into that same dream—recollection—dream that had caused him to wake up in the first place.

___

Days later, even when he could finally manage to stay awake from morning to late afternoon, Clyde and the fire were still there, all the time, letting Riff see the doctor and the walls and the narrow, narrow window (which also had iron bars projecting their shadow onto the pavement and, sometimes, Riff himself) through them, but never leaving him.

They kept him company (and they were more vivid than ever) when Riff's head was getting lighter and lighter by the minute because he'd sliced his own wrist.

___

There were already several strands of silver – thin, ragged lines, like broken cobwebs – marring Riff's flesh (and, under fresh bandages, another irregular line of crusts and thread and red, bothered skin), when he decided to stop.

Maybe it was because the doctor just wouldn't let him die, and he was so, so tired of hurting and trying without ever getting anything back. Or maybe it had something to do with Lord Alexis, who had decided to take care of him—Actually, Riff didn't, couldn't remember _why_ exactly he didn't just try to pull out the stitches with his teeth out of frustration and pain. Nor could he tell _when_: it was as if little changes were happening somewhere inside his head, and he only noticed them once the shift was too drastic not to be noticed and, by then, any trace of the path that might have led to it was no more.

However, Riff spent his last days in the padded room and his first day at the Hargreaves estate wondering _why_, not at all sure his change of mind made any sense at all.

Then, well past suppertime, he met a crying boy in a crumpled nightshirt.

And while Riff would never find the answer he was looking for (if not—later—too late), he was about to find a reason to go on and live through the rest of his life.

___

Tonight, all of the other servants are already sleeping in their beds, and Riff can feel the silence reverberating through the mansion and all of Mayfair, like ink quickly spreading its tendrils in perfectly pure water. His worry is following pretty much the same procedure: slowly squeezing his throat and heart and hands with icy claws.

It is not the first time Lord Cain goes out at night without him, and in these past few years, Riff has heard and seen enough things to know that he's not as helpless as his thin frame and youthful face would suggest.

It's only with time, that Riff learns that this apprehension is due to his own irrational fear of losing Cain, rather than a blind, almost parental sense of duty dictating to protect him even when there's no need to.

___

Sometimes, Riff will open his eyes to find himself in a certain room or place without remembering why he is there; in these occasions, he often turns around to glance at the nearest clock, only to find that its arms are in a different position than they're supposed to be (how can so much time have passed already? And, so quickly?).

He wonders if there's anything wrong with his head, and even visits a (proper) doctor once or twice, but he never tells Lord Cain anything.

___

Today, Riff is serving tea and pastries to Lord Cain and his little sister, Miss Merryweather, a precious little thing with hair like sunlight and a dazzling smile. Riff watches her dance across the garden and then stop to pick a certain flower and then running away again, like a stray butterfly.

Her presence is a good, good thing for Lord Cain – Riff can see that. And when the wind carries one of Miss Merry's tarot cards at his feet, he picks it up mechanically: it depicts a huge tower crumbling down, and there a twinge of uneasiness which makes Riff's heart skip a beat and his hands grow cold. He can't really understand why, but he _is_ a rational man, so he tells himself it must have something to do with the flames (wrapped around the tower like a snake, or a possessive lover) and wounds that can still hurt, sometimes, even though they've healed long ago—because humans are frail, after all, and Riff, who in the past wanted to be a doctor more than anything else, knows this way better than many.

The wind starts blowing again, and the card flies away from his fingers (which are long and cold, and his master once told him – laughing, mocking, maybe?, that those with cold hands have instead a big, warm heart). Cain's sudden call keeps him from chasing after it; all the unsettling thoughts are forgotten.

___

Sometimes (mostly when the atmosphere gets unusually quiet – but not peaceful, never peaceful – for the Hargreaves mansion), Lord Cain's eyes seem to be looking at some place far, far away; even further than the foggy landscape beyond the window and the garden. At first, this used to frighten Riff a bit (the nightmare of life-how-he-wanted-it-to-be slipping away from him that bled into reality for a short, painful while), however, time after time, Lord Cain would still turn his gaze away from the outside world, silently beckoning him to come closer, only to bury his face against Riff's chest. Even now, it doesn't matter how many times Riff has already held his master like that: Cain's fingers always clench so tightly around his shirt that they shake and turn white.

Riff always does his best not to let his own hold get that tight.

___

Riff knows that Lord Neil only thinks of his nephew's well-being. His harsh words and stern expressions and even his unconcealed dislike toward Riff himself—everything, everything is to ensure Cain's safety; to grant him an existence devoid of curses and nightmares. Happiness isn't an easy thing to obtain, and it becomes impossible to acquire if people won't struggle to reach it themselves; but love makes you arrogant, and when you hold someone dear, you try your best to make that person happy.

Riff understands Lord Neil in the way that only someone who shares his wish could, and that's why he doesn't mind his constant reproaches; rather, he takes them as a possibility to inspect his own flaws, an incentive to do better.

Sometimes, though, Riff can see Clyde's expression – hurt or indifferent or angered – reflected in his master's eyes after the latest discussion with his uncle. He is young, Riff tells himself, he needs time to understand, and he _will_, but in a few years. Besides, in spite of Riff's almost stoic attitude, Cain has never looked at him like that: as if he thinks that the person in front of him can't understand his thoughts at all.

However, there are times when Riff hopes he knew how to be more open about his own feelings. His brother's ghost still lingers between him and the world: it's not a chain that binds him to a life that's no more, but a reminder that it would take very little for this peace to turn into ashes.

___

Once, and only once, during one of those silent embraces, Riff has spotted Miss Merryweather's blond hair glinting like gold behind the door he thought he'd closed. She was there – her posture unusually stiff and her eyes unusually serious – exactly like a doll or the wandering spirit of a lost, beautiful child; she was there, and when their gazes met, she disappeared (and the corridor was filled with muffled footsteps and her bird-like voice, wordlessly intoning one of Mother Goose nursery rhymes).

The next time Lord Cain held him close, Riff did not dare glancing at the door, although he knew for sure, now, that it was closed, and that, even if it weren't, Miss Merry wouldn't be there. For some reason, he felt that doing otherwise would have been disrespectful—to whom, he couldn't say.

___

Ironically, it is a ghost that destroys his world, one day.

It's not his brother's, though, but a woman's—a whore called back among the living to tell the tale of her death.

"That man—he's in this room," she says, terrified, with his master's voice, and Riff feels sick, probably because this implies that he's let someone so dangerous be near Lord Cain, or probably because—

"—on his chest," she continues, and her words reach Riff disjointed and almost nonsensical, "—like a rose—" and it takes all of Riff's willpower to stop his hand from reaching out and touching his own chest.

Lord Cain's lips still part and close around new words: it's her who's speaking, but it looks, it sounds as if it's him and none of this makes sense, but Riff isn't a self-indulgent man; not even slightly, not even enough to let himself believe that yes, it must be a coincidence, because he has no memory of ever—No, no. It's actually the fact that there are things, minutes, hours, he doesn't remember at all, that worries him.

___

Riff remembers well the strong, almost pungent scent of wild flowers scattered all over his bed. He remembers it better than the suffocating smell of smoke and furniture burning away.

___

The taste of his master's blood on his lips, inside his mouth, is what makes Riff realize that there could be more. That during their daily rituals his touch could linger, his fingers caress, instead of quickly skidding from button to button, like smooth pebbles on water. In this moment, he could grab that slim wrist and kiss the pale digit still smeared with blood. He could speak, and let out a thousand things he's held inside for years, hiding them away and yet letting them grow freely, like one would do with a delicate plant.

He could, but he doesn't want to: Riff values too much what he's allowed to call his right now, to feel hunger for anything else.

___

He acts like a coward and does not mention his scar and his doubts, though, when Oscar Gabriel is ordered to take off his shirt: for the first time, that of losing Lord Cain's trust is not merely an unfounded fear, but a concrete possibility, and this is enough to turn Riff into a liar and a selfish person.

He doesn't want to lose the reason that keeps him alive; he too is human, after all.

___

"There's no such thing as unconditional love," the doctor often says, bitter. Sometimes his voice is derisive, as if implying a challenge; sometimes it is low—a whisper trying hard to be a furious hiss, trying to hide jealousy and wounds that are still open.

Riff, however, is sure he will stay at Lord Cain's side forever, even if he feels like dying more and more, day after day.


End file.
